A Personal Case
by freakyfroggie
Summary: When he received the small white envelope the world's only consulting detective could not imagine that he was about to embark in the possibly most peculiar case of his life. Set after the great hiatus.
1. Chapter 1 Mr Sigerson goes for a walk

**Chapter 1**

**Mr Sigerson goes for a walk**

Mrs Graves was a nice old lady well respected in the neighbourhood and famous for the mouth-watering cakes she often left to cool down on her window sill. None of her tenants ever had anything to complain about, and she had been renting the flat upstairs at 187, North Gower street for a good 17 years, that is ever since her late husband- bless his soul- had run off with a samba dancer half his age somewhere in Brazil. There had been a bit of a scandal in the neighbourhood at the time, but even that could not tarnish Mrs Graves' respectability and her good name seemed to be above any slander. That was true until five years ago when the flat upstairs had been rented to a certain Mr S. Sigerson.

Now, not much was know about Mr S. Sigerson, not even his first name to be honest, and to be even more honest very few people had actually met him or seen him personally. But if you asked anyone in the neighbourhood who this Sigerson was they would shake their heads and- in lowered voices- launch in the description of the most sinister figure London had ever seen since the time of Jack the Ripper.

Mr Sigerson was never seen by daylight but would only venture in the night time or just before the break of day when most respectable people are asleep. He didn't eat or at least not what normal people did for in his garbage- which his kind landlady, Mrs Graves, courteously took upon herself to gather once a week- there was no trace of food wrapping or take-out packaging of any sorts but – which was more disturbing- it was filled with syringes and bones, all covered in blood and once- and this must be true because Doctor Wilsons said so- once a real human hand had been found in a plastic tapperwar ! Someone in the neighbourhood had suggested that Mr Sigerson must be a scientist of sorts which would explain the macabre findings, but this hypothesis was soon discarded when strange noises started to come from the formerly respectable building at 187 North Gower street.

In the middle of the night ( but sometimes even in the day time) horrible sounds were heard, as of something exploding or breaking, and twice in the last month something that sounded suspiciously like gunshots and once, last February it must have been, Mrs Pilsner- who lives next door- swears she heard a chainsaw going off in the middle of the afternoon. But what really creeped out the poor inhabitants of the street was the sad, almost melancholic music that often was heard coming from that flat. That such a music was associated with the Sinister Sigerson- as he was known in the neighbourhood- was probably the last straw for them so that the mental picture that came to their mind when thinking of Mrs Graves' mysterious tenant was rather that of modern day Doctor Frankenstein rather than a regular scientist.

Half of these rumours would have persuaded anyone to contact the police at once- as it is it took even less for the good inhabitants of North Gower street. But however much they tried- and God knows they tried their best- it seemed they couldn't quite manage to convince the police of the gravity of the situation. A few months after Mr Sigeron's arrival it became apparent why. It seems in fact that Mister Sinister's – for short- visitors comprised only of dubious looking people, almost certainly homeless, a rich man- because he had to be rich, everyone concluded, to afford that kind of car- with an umbrella, and- lo and behold!- none other than the police itself. Nobody was really sure of the reason why almost weekly a police car would be seen parked in front of the once respectable abode of Mrs Graves but that surely didn't stop anyone from speculating and the conclusions they reached are the very reason why Mr Sigerson would never find anyone willing to lend him, if asked- not that he ever did- a bit of sugar for his afternoon tea.

Therefore it is really no wonder that such a nice winter morning, as it was that day, found nice old Mrs Portia Graves sitting at her kitchen table mentally cursing herself for the day she rented her flat to the peculiar Mr Sigerson.

Her musings however were interrupted by the tenant in question when he came running down the stairs. If truth be told, Mr Sigerson's outer appearance betrayed nothing of his inner, sinister identity. He was by no means a young man, probably in his early forties or late thirties with dark curly hair which was beginning to grey at the temples, but his lithe tall body always seemed to move with a urgency more becoming of a younger age as it was doing now, descending the stairs making a terrible racket.

"Mr Sigerson!" called Mrs Graves, lowering her cup of tea on the saucer, "I need to speak to you Mr Sigerson! Is it blood leaking through the floor boards in the living room?" but Mr Sigerson didn't answer, probably didn't even hear his landlady as he went rushing through the open front door for his mind was completely elsewhere having recently received a certain text.

"_Come to the park. It could be dangerous"_


	2. Chapter 2 Dangerous doesn't even describ

**Chapter 2**

**Dangerous doesn't even describe it**

Despite the fact that most people would have said otherwise looking at him, Mr Sigerson was actually in no hurry that morning. There was no denying of course that he was walking at a very fast pace, but that was simply his normal gait. He was the kind of man who either went somewhere running or didn't move at all. The truth is that he was an easily bored man and when he could not find something to entertain him he would surely plummet in a state of lethargy from which his friends- for he did have some, albeit few- would try to stir him.

This was the case of that morning, when Mr Sigerson was headed to St. James park. It was actually a beautiful winter day, if a bit cold so the park was not as crowded as usual and it was easy for Mr Sigerson to immediately spot the sender of the text sitting on a bench facing the opposite way.

"Good morning doctor Watson" said Mr Sigerson approaching the other man.

"Sherlock! I thought you wouldn't come! I texted you ages ago!" said John Watson carelessly raising from the bench to face his friend. And that proved to be a fatal mistake.

Before any of the men could react a flying object hit the helpless doctor squarely on the back of the head. John froze on the spot, his eyes wide open in horror while from the back of his throat came forth a gurgling sound of pain.

Mr Sigerson, or rather, Sherlock Holmes, as he was once known, peered above John's shoulder, in the direction whence the object had come with a peculiar expression written on his pale features and said "Good morning to you too Mr Samuel Watson".

Samuel Watson, aged 6 years and 3 months, smiled brightly at the older man feeling quite content with himself having just managed to hit his father with a masterfully crafted snowball which was currently melting down his back. "Sherlock!" cried Sam running madly towards the adults bursting with joy at the arrival of his friend. And this turned out to be Sam Watson's fatal mistake.

He had not reached Sherlock yet, that his father abruptly turned towards him and with a feral voice growled "Sherlock Samuel Watson!" and lunged at Sam who, sensing the danger, started running in the opposite direction with his father in hot pursuit.

Having been deserted by the two Watsons, Sherlock allowed his lips to ever so slightly curl upward in what who knew him knew to represent a smile. The source of his perverse amusement was to be found in the degree of anger shown by his friend John, for only in the direst of situations would the elder Watson call his son by his full name and the reason was very simple. John Watson had once come to hate his son's name.

Many years ago, eight to be precise, Sherlock Holmes had been forced to fake his death and had deemed it wise – for John's own protection as he was adamant to remind- to keep his friend in the dark. Needless to say the poor doctor had been devastated by the loss, and when his son was born had decided to name him after the once great detective now fallen in disgrace to show his loyalty to the world. When three years later his friend's death had turned out to have been quite exaggerated the misdeed was done and the innocent infant had already been marked by the peculiar name. Furthermore John had not taken the whole ordeal too well which had resulted in the two friends not talking to each other for quite sometime. When finally the good doctor decided to forgive his friend he lamented that he could not bear to be plagued by two Sherlocks (for his son had already proved to be a real pest) and so it was decided to call the child by his second name, Samuel. John however reserved himself the questionable pleasure of calling him by his full name on special occasions such as the one of that specific morning when his firstborn managed to really make him lose his temper, occasions which were more often than not originally caused by his namesake.

Sherlock himself had never really commented on his friend's choice in names but John suspected he had been pleased by it, if not even touched- not that he ever openly showed it, mind you, but he had taken a sort liking for the younger Watson. The signs were not immediately apparent, but after some time, when Sam wasn't a toddler anymore and to interact with him didn't necessarily entail pulling faces or playing peek-a-boo, Sherlock's interest in the child started to be more manifest. He would teach Sam things about nature and the rudiments of mechanical physics, surprisingly selecting with care topics that would intrigue him. The former detective used to call him "his little experiment" as he meant to ascertain whether a child borne of two specimen of mediocre intellect – "No offence John, I mean-" "I Know, I know, I'm almost flattered!"- could flourish in a fairly intelligent person under the guidance and assistance of a superior mind- "That would be…you ..Sherlock?" "Of course me. Who did you think I was referring to?" "Ah.. I don't know… Mycroft?".

On that precise moment Sherlock was weighting the pros and cons of giving Sam a smattering of practical Chemistry- Mary, John's wife, would probably fuss about the new parquet- or perhaps taking advantage of the chilly weather to explore the typologies of ice, when his musing were interrupted by John who arrived, panting hard, carrying the little experiment on his shoulder.

"Sherlock please help me bring this _thing_ home and give it a bath before it catches pneumonia. We are both drenched to the bone and-"

"Isn't your wife supposed to help you with this kind of thing?"

"Mary is in Cornwall, assisting one of her great-great-aunt-living-all-alone-in-a-god-forsaken-village so I am left alone with the little beast for the foreseeable future so your help would be-"

"Ok. Let's go."

And with that Sherlock took the child off John's shoulder and, carrying him under his arm, like a parcel, sprinted off in the direction of his friend's house, not even waiting for him to regain his breath.

_Chemistry, then._


	3. Sherlock feels cheated

**Chapter 3**

Sherlock felt cheated. He had foolishly decided to answer his friend's invitation to the park in the hope of relieving himself of the utter boredom that vexed him ever since he had solved his last case. It seemed ages ago, when in fact he had solved it only a handful of hours prior, having spent the whole night working on it. He didn't mind not sleeping. He didn't have a great need of rest. _He._

John came back in the living room after having successfully put his son to bed, a smug smile on his lips. "There we go. Out like a light. He'll sleep for another hour at least!" said John proudly, sprawling on the sofa in front of Sherlock.

"You do know that at his age for every minute not spent in learning it will take hours of hard study in later years to make up for-"

"Yes, I _do_ know it, Sherlock, because you've already told me countless times. But Sam is tired now, and quite frankly so am I, so forgive me if I don't think it a tragedy to waste 60 minutes of my son's potential mind development."

"You are right. Not a tragedy, really" said Sherlock after John's outburst. "Remorse is more like it, considering what little intellectual inheritance, genetically speaking, you have passed on to him, the fact that you also prove to be unwilling to somehow mend it will likely generate remorse in you in the future, probably leading to a difficult relationship with your son, which might result in you hitting the bottle, there's a certain propensity to do so in the family, I seem to remember, and that's genetic as well, you know…"

John was about to scream. He was unsure whether it was stronger the urge to hit Sherlock with the first available piece of pottery or the desire to inflict some pain on himself. Just what had he been thinking? How had the idea of asking his friend to keep him company while babysitting his son had ever appealed to him? Now instead of _just_ dealing with one child he had to baby sit two Sher- two infants. And the bigger of the two could not even be put to sleep that easily. John groaned and retreated to the kitchen to make some much needed tea.

While John was contemplating whether Sherlock's trust in him was high enough to let him get away with slipping a bit of valium in his friend's cup – not much, no, really, just enough to knock him down for a while - he glimpsed a pile of mail towering on the other end of the kitchen counter. He groaned. Really, how could so much mail heap in the span of only two days was beyond him. How did Mary manage to sort it daily? With a sigh he laid down his tea on the counter, while with the other hand started to sort the mail.

Meanwhile in the living room Sherlock was beginning to climb the wall. Hi usually superior, high-functioning mind was apparently stuck on one simple concept. Bored. Bored. **Bored**. He felt trapped in a room that held for him no interest whatsoever. That is to say no mystery. Apart from the fact that John Watson was probably the person he knew best in the whole world, the place was so easily readable that it was disheartening. He had already deduced that the Watson's' cleaning maid was having an affair with the baker's apprentice and the lesbian couple living next door was debating whether or not to have an adoption. Then of course there was the matter of the old lady upstairs…

Sherlock sighed dejectedly. This would not do it. He needed to find something else to keep him occupied. He fished his phone from his pocket and was already texting sergeant Lestrade to see if there was any interesting case for him to solve when he heard John calling him from the kitchen.

"Uh. Sherlock? I think I have something for you to do…"

Sherlock sighed. "I'm not going to change Sam's diaper, John, no matter how many times you ask."

John's face came peeping out of the door.

"That was five years ago, Sherlock! No, what I meant to say is that I found something that might interest you."

Sherlock's hand kept typing away on the phone as his throat emitted a sound that might have meant either "I'm interested, go on" or "I couldn't care less", but most likely just meant "I'm not listening anyway".

But John had been friends with Sherlock for more than 10 years now and was not that easily put off so he went on talking.

"It seems I have received mail addressed to you."

"Not likely. Almost no one writes to Mr Sigerson. Certainly not paper mail." Said Sherlock not raising his eyes from the phone screen.

"Forget Mr Sigerson. I believe this was meant for the attention of Sherlock Holmes"

Sherlock's fingers stopped their wild dance on the phone as his eyes met John's.


End file.
